


The Adventure of the Boxing Ring

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, M/M, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime after the Adventure of the Trojan Club in 1883 (with a little back-tracking, to fill in some detail about Holmes and Moriarty's relationship, and their move to London). Moriarty narrates a case in which Holmes sets out to find a missing boxer.</p><p>This story contains no violence (unlike others in the series).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Boxing Ring

Holmes had never completed his studies at Oxford. It was not that he lacked either the intelligence or application to do so, of course; rather that his brain was so focussed that anything that fell outside the small circle of his interest would so frustrate him that he would, quietly but stubbornly, refuse point blank to study it. While this attitude certainly had its benefits in the diligence with which he applied himself to those matters he deemed important, it was not, however, one that met with the whole-hearted approval of his professors. Faced with the daily irritation of their insistence that he apply himself to all areas of his studies with equal vigour, Holmes simply ceased attending altogether, and was thus sent down at the end of his second year.

I don’t think Holmes cared particularly. Degrees and diplomas meant nothing to him – he was at the University for the love of his craft, nothing more. What’s more, he was well acquainted with the morose and taciturn lab technician, one Mr Absalom, whose lifelong hatred of the students he served meant that he was overjoyed that one of the few young men he really respected was no longer a part of this sub-human class. He thus allowed Holmes a freer run of the labs than any student – or even professor – enjoyed, fetching every item of equipment or chemical that Holmes desired at a moment’s notice.

Perhaps it was the ease of his life in Oxford. Perhaps he was a little nervous of that oft-mentioned move to the city. Or perhaps Holmes really did feel some attachment to me. Whatever the case, he had remained at his experiments in Oxford until a year later, when on the completion of my own course, we moved to London together, where I continued my own studies in mathematics and chemistry at University College.

Interestingly enough, once he had been shaken out of the dejection brought on by the realities of London life, Holmes never turned to me for help in continuing the experiments which had occupied him in Oxford, although this would surely have been the obvious course. Always independent to the point of aloof indifference, Holmes did not even mention to me that he was resuming his career in chemistry until he happened to make some off-hand comment about the university hospital in which he was currently working.

As well as his “art”, Holmes’ new role also allowed him to indulge in one of his other favourite pursuits – that of amateur boxing – and it was in the long low gymnasium that backed onto the hospital that I found him one pleasant summer day. I had come to meet my lover on something of a whim – interested to find out where he spent his days – and was told by a technician that it was Holmes’ habit to spend each Wednesday afternoon there. And so, having escaped the barely-disguised curiosity of the eager technician, I made my way into the gymnasium, greeted instantly by the sound of punches, and the occasional grunt and gasp.

I’m not sure exactly when it was that I noticed there was something unusual about the boxing match before me. It was more of a gradual process. The hall was dim, and the ring ordinary in the extreme, so that in fact I noticed the quickening of my own pulse before I recognised the thing that had excited me. And, when I did, I could hardly believe I had missed it at first – the iron scent of blood was in the very air, the precious liquid smeared across the fighters’ chests, decorating fists that had smashed ruby red from Holmes’s nose and his opponent’s lip, fists that were inflicting more damage by being unadorned by the usual protective covering. I drew closer, my excitement at the display increasing rapidly as I leant against the ropes at the side of the ring, cock stiffening further within the tight confines of my trousers at every punch.

I don’t think any man could have denied that Holmes was magnificent. Ducking and parrying, his tall, lean body sheathed with a film of sweat, he landed blow after blow as his opponent staggered in front of him, clearly tiring rapidly. I wondered what it would be like to fight him myself and bit my lip, fondling myself almost absently through my clothing as the second fighter tumbled to the floor. Holmes stood over him, breathing heavily, still so focused on the fight that he did not even register my presence until, positive his opponent was not going to rise, he turned towards the edge of the ring.

“Moriarty.” His voice was carefully expressionless, although he could hardly have anticipated my presence.

“Do you usually spar bare-fisted?” I asked him by way of greeting as he slipped between the ropes to join me. Holmes smiled.

"If I am forced into a confrontation outside the ring, I am hardly likely to have my gloves to hand, am I?” He asked, sliding his arms around my waist, clearly as aroused by the fight as I was. I leant towards him, lips brushing gently against his, the tang of blood tasting sharp and beautiful.

“Oh Sherlock…” I breathed, running my hands through his damp hair, a few seconds passing before we were kissing furiously, my hands sliding over his body, wet with sweat and blood.

Sex had always been a power struggle between Holmes and I. I don’t think either of us would have wanted it any other way. But, for once, Holmes barely stood a chance of besting me. Turned on by all measure by what I had witnessed, by the blood I could taste on Holmes’ skin, my strength seemed to increase tenfold and, had I been able to step back and watch from a distance I’ve no doubt I myself would have been surprised at the speed with which I stripped down Holmes’ tight boxing trousers, pushing him round against the ropes of the boxing ring with unnecessary violence.

I doubt Holmes minded particularly. Our relationship was such that we both knew that we would have our own way at some time or other, and Holmes must have been tired after his exertions in the ring as it was. And he pressed back against me with panting eagerness as I stroked the cleft between his firm buttocks, fingers smeared with the fluids which decorated his body. I wasn’t gentle when I finally thrust inside him, but I had prepared him well, and Holmes let out just the faintest of cries as I penetrated him, knuckles whitening on the ropes he clutched to steady himself as I grabbed his shoulders, my body bucking against his as it swayed against the edge of the ring.

And so I fucked him. I fucked him thoroughly until I felt his body shudder against mine, and I came inside him just at the moment he himself ejaculated with a low moan over the boxing ring.

It was only when I pulled away from Holmes, panting furiously, that I thought to wonder whether our little liaison in such a public place had been wise. It appeared that the other boxer had picked himself up and simply taken his opportunity to leave. On the other side of the ring, however, stood a squat, flat-faced man, whose nose had clearly been broken so many times that I took him to be the owner of the establishment. It seemed that I was right for, when he saw that he had got our attention, he stepped around the ring as we both hastily arranged our disarrayed clothing, ignoring me and addressing Holmes curtly, in pompous Cockney tones.

“Mr Holmes, I believe I have previously made you aware that I do not allow bare-knuckle boxing in my gymnasium.”

Holmes simply shrugged in answer, smirking slightly in the way he always did when there was really nothing he could say in his defence. There was a short pause, and then the man continued.

“However, I also believe you’re good at…  _finding_ people.” Holmes cocked his head.

”Whatever do you mean?” He asked, hardly betraying any interest. The man seemed to relax, as if realising that, in unburdening his problems, he no longer needed to take an official tone.

“Well, I got this young fighter, see.” He said conversationally, “He’s a promising lad, and I got a lot riding on him, especially in the big fight at the end of the week. He was due to come in for training yesterday, but no one’s seen hide nor hair of him!” Holmes laughed derisively, obviously seeing nothing to interest him in the man’s story.

“Maybe your young man has merely changed his mind about his chosen career.” He suggested scornfully. The proprietor bristled at Holmes’ tone.

"You’re lucky I haven’t already thrown you out, Mr Holmes!”  He exclaimed, “The way I sees it, you owe me a favour!” Holmes’s lip curled and, not deigning to answer, he turned instead to me.

“Come, Moriarty, we’re leaving. I don’t think I shall be patronising this venue again.” At this the pugnacious little man’s manner changed once again, and his tone became almost wheedling 

“I didn’t mean to offend, Mr Holmes!” He insisted.

"That’s all very well, Mr Palmer,” Holmes said acidly, “But I don’t believe there is anything in your so-called “case” to interest me.” Palmer tilted his head, glancing from one to the other of us with beady eyes.

"Would it interest you to know that this boy was, er, one of your kind…?” He asked. Both Holmes and I raised our eyebrows simultaneously, and the man laughed. “I don’t care what you lot gets up to – so long as a boy fights well he can take his pleasure where he chooses!” He laughed, “Although I’d rather not witness these goings on in the gym itself…” I couldn’t help smirking, but Holmes had become immediately business-like.

“Very well, Mr Palmer, I’ll find your boy. But if he doesn’t wish to fight, it is not my business to persuade him.” Mr Palmer nodded.

“Just get him to me, that’s all I ask.” He said.

**

“This case seems to be a little more interesting than I at first anticipated.” Holmes remarked as we strolled home through the warm, early evening streets, after we had heard the entirety of Mr Palmer’s story. I grinned knowingly at him.

"Well, you wouldn’t have taken it otherwise, would you?” I said. Holmes’ tone was rather scathing.

“Of course not!” He all but snapped, “There is far too much else in the world to occupy a man’s attention than running around after some foolish young boy, simply because he happens to prefer the company of men.”

“So Mr Palmer’s assertion didn’t influence you in any way?” I asked teasingly. Holmes drew himself up seriously.

“I admit that the fact made me more inclined to listen to his story.” He said stiffly, “But perhaps I had been too hasty at first anyway – allowing my personal feelings to interfere with my judgement before I had heard anything of the case.” He paused, then grinned in an uncharacteristically frank manner. “Although it’s a nice – and pleasantly rebellious – feeling to help those who are beyond the reach of the law for no fault of their own, wouldn’t you agree?” I nodded, and Holmes went on briskly.

“So, let us lay out the facts. This boy, 18-year-old Jack Tanner, has not been seen by his trainer, nor anyone who knows him so far as can be ascertained, this past week. The trainer has visited the boy’s lodgings, where the landlady could only tell him that the rent was all paid up for several more weeks, but that was hardly unusual, for the lad tended to pay in large amounts whenever he won a fight, and had done as much on his last victory. The landlady claimed him to be a good tenant – her only complaint was that he kept late hours, and sometimes did not return home at all of an evening, but she was fond of the boy and put his behaviour down to the excited frivolities of youth. The one thing Mr Palmer  _was_ able to find in the lad’s rooms, after persuading the agitated landlady to let him inside, was this.” And Holmes produced a square of card from his pocket, turning it slowly between his fingers. “The business card of Palmer’s most hated rival – and the backer of the other boy in Friday’s fight. And, on the reverse, a handwritten note stating simply, “12:30”.”

“You suspect foul play?” I asked. Holmes smiled.

“That  _would_ seem the obvious assumption.” He admitted, “But I often find it better not to  _make_ assumptions.” He turned the card over a few more times, looking thoughtful, before musing. “I really must get some decent cards of my own made up.”

**

As I expected, Holmes’ first step was to call on Mr Palmer’s rival, one Arthur Kent and, with that purpose in mind, he allowed me to accompany him the next morning on the train to Wimbledon. Mr Kent’s house was large, yet with the lack of taste often exhibited in men unused to money for most of their lives. Holmes sneered in obvious disgust at the various china animals and badly painted children on the walls as we were shown into Mr Kent’s study by a young manservant.

“Mr Kent, I will come straight to the point.” Holmes said, managaing a thin-lipped smile, for the décor was here a little better, if only for the fact that a large amount of the curiosities appeared to be being packed away in several crates. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have been engaged by Mr Palmer to investigate the whereabouts of his prize fighter, Jack Tanner.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw the young servant jump, and it must have been this that drew Arthur Kent’s attention to him, for he said irritably.

“That will be all, William.” Turning back to Holmes as the boy left the room, he frowned. “The whereabouts of Jack Tanner?” He asked, “Surely, as his trainer, Mr Palmer should know the boy’s movements better than anyone?” Holmes nodded.

“You and Mr Palmer are rivals though, are you not?” He asked. “I am well aware that Mr Palmer’s champion is due to fight a boy of your own this very week, and you yourself are set to lose a substantial amount of money should your fighter be defeated.” Mr Kent laughed.

“You don’t beat about the bush, do you Mr Holmes?” He said. “But let me assure you that I am a very wealthy man. I have been in this business a long time, and can easily afford to lose such a sum of money as you describe. What’s more, this fight will be my last match – you must have seen that my household is in some disarray. I’m selling up, and the morning after the fight of which you speak I shall be making my way to America, to join the rest of my household who set sail tomorrow morning.” He smiled, without great politeness. “I am sure, bearing this in mind, that you realise I have many matters to attend to and, pleasant though our conversation may be, I thus have no further time to continue it. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

We bade Mr Kent farewell and left his premises, I myself determined to impart my own information to Holmes as soon as possible.

"The boy-“

"Yes, his behaviour was decidedly suspicious.” Holmes interrupted, deflating me somewhat. “I think, in light of that, that we might find somewhere for a spot of lunch and then return to Mr Kent’s house in secret.”

**

The sun was low in the sky when we returned, slipping furtively through the grounds to the back of the building. The lawns were large and well-kept, a garden shed nestling among the shrubbery at the end of the expanse of grass. Holmes made his way rapidly towards this and I followed, but we were forced to duck among the bushes at the side of the garden when a figure emerged from the house, making in our direction.

As it came closer, we saw that this was the very servant lad who had aroused our suspicions earlier on. Holmes leant forward, watching earnestly as the boy balanced a covered bowl on one hand as he unlocked the door, before disappearing into the shed.

“It looked to me as if the boy was carrying someone’s dinner.” I remarked casually. Holmes nodded.

“And I would not be greatly surprised if the meal was young Tanner’s.” He said.

"You think that Kent has kidnapped him after all?” I asked. Holmes smiled.

"I didn’t say that.” He said mysteriously. “Come, we had better catch the next train or we shall never get home.”

“Hadn’t we better wait till the servant is back in the house?” I asked, as Holmes stepped back onto the lawns, in full view of the shed. He turned back to me, smiling again.

“Oh, I think he will be a little while!” He said.

 **

To my surprise, rather than make any attempt to rescue the young boxer from Mr Kent’s clutches, Holmes instead spent the evening perusing the shipping pages of the paper, before sending a telegram to Mr Palmer asking him to meet us at the docks in Greenwich the next morning.

“Do you think that Kent intends to take the boy to America with him?” I asked Holmes in the cab the next morning, having spent the night pondering a case which still infuriated me, while Holmes slumbered peacefully beside me, clearly certain that he had solved the mystery already. Holmes shrugged, with a slight smile.

"I suppose that’s a possibility.” He conceded, although the maddening twinkle in his eye suggested he didn’t think as much. “Whatever the case, it is with Kent’s household belongings that we shall find the boy.”

Mr Palmer, of course, immediately demanded answers when he saw us descend from the cab in the heart of the bustling dock. But he was met with the same mysterious smile with which Holmes insisted on presenting me, although his repeated questions did not dissipate as Holmes led us towards the gangway of a large vessel, already being loaded with supplies and the belongings of those intent on travelling to the new world. Holmes marched on board the ship, exchanging a few quiet words with the captain before leading us to the hold.

Kent’s servant boy, who was sitting on top of a crate inside the hold, jerked round in surprise when he heard footsteps behind him, pulling away guiltily from his companion, a broad-shouldered young lad of a similar age. His movements were not, however, fast enough for anyone to miss the fact that the pair had been embracing, their mouths eagerly locked together with the passion of youth. Mr Palmer, however, had no interest in this – he merely strode forward, crying out in a mixture of anger and relief at the servant’s companion.

"Just where the devil have you _been_ , boy?!”

Holmes stepped forward, laying a hand on Palmer’s arm, effortlessly taking control of the situation.

“I take it that you do not intend to stow away on this vessel, young man?” He said. Jack Tanner (for it was, of course, he) hung his head.

“I never meant to cause no trouble!” He protested. “I just- I knew this fight was important to Mr Palmer, but what was important to me was William here.” At this, almost without the boy seeming conscious of his movements, he reached a hand out to squeeze William’s, who smiled, resting his head against Tanner’s shoulder. He turned his face to the agitated Mr Palmer. “I’m sorry, sir. But with things as they were, and William going to America with his master, the only way as I could spend his last days with him was to hide out there. I’ll still fight, sir – I know as I can’t make it to America myself now. But it’s a good chance for William, and he can’t afford to miss it. If I win enough fights, maybe I can join him there. But, right now, I just had to say goodbye.”

Maybe it was because the boy’s words were so heartfelt, and his lover was gazing at him so adoringly as he spoke – or maybe Mr Palmer was simply aware that any remonstrance would be pointless were he still to have a boy to fight on Friday. At any rate, he stepped back slightly.

“Well, you had better make up for it with some last minute training this evening, lad!” He said gruffly. Holmes smiled.

"I think perhaps we should leave these two young men to their goodbyes, don’t you?” He said. As we headed for the ladder out of the hold, his hand brushed my arm and, as I turned, he smiled again, in what almost seemed, for that second, a display of affection.

And then, in a moment, he strode on ahead, and I was left wondering if I had imagined it.


End file.
